Memory's Embrace

by Linda Lael Miller

  She found a fallen birch bough, and, as she dragged it back toward the camp, Tess reflected, huffing and puffing, that it might be she who was exhausted, and not Keith.

  Sure enough, he chopped the huge limb into suitable pieces without even working up a sweat. Tess sat bleakly under the canopy, watching him while she stirred the stew they’d bought at the restaurant in town.

  After washing up with disturbing industry—he removed his shirt if not that insufferable hat—at the edge of the pond, Keith joined Tess at the fire and sat down on the ground, cross-legged like an Indian.

  He ate his share of the warmed-over stew with good appetite, his eyes seldom straying from Tess’s slightly pinkened face.

  “What more can a man ask?” he finally observed, philosophically, setting his metal bowl aside and settling back against an empty laudanum crate with a sigh. “A snapping fire. A hot meal. And a woman. What else could I want?”

  For her part, Tess wanted a hot bath, a shampoo, and perhaps a cup of tea, but she mentioned none of those things. After all, it wasn’t Keith’s fault that she was without such comforts; forsaking them had been her own idea.

  “You definitely have a fire,” she pointed out, determined to keep her temper, “and you’ve had a hot meal. But you will not have a woman, Keith Corbin. Not this one, at least.”

  “Why not?” He was still teasing her, but there was a gentleness in his voice now.

  Tess couldn’t help it; tears slid down her cheeks, tears of weariness, confusion, and hurt. “Because I’m sore,” she said honestly. “I was, after all, a virgin.”

  The azure eyes, so mischievous before, seemed to caress her now, to console her. “Why didn’t you stop me, Tess? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Tess lowered her head, dashed away the foolish tears. “I guess I wanted—I wanted you to take me.”

  Keith made a sound of gentle exasperation, but no move to touch her. He seemed to sense that she could not have dealt with that, not at that moment, anyway. “You know something, shoebutton? You’re the most confusing woman I’ve ever met. When you could have told me that you were a virgin, you didn’t. And now, when it would preserve your pride to say I forced you—”

  Tess met his gaze instantly. “But you didn’t force me! I—I was willing—”

  “Most women wouldn’t admit that.” Now, he moved closer to her, set the bowler hat on the top of her head, smoothed her hair with an unbelievably gentle hand. “Tell me just one thing, Tess. When you said that you liked making love, were you just trying to get my goat, or did you mean it?”

  Again, she averted her eyes. “I meant it,” she admitted. “It was—well—do you think it would be like that with any man?”

  He slid an arm around her shoulders, held her in a comforting, undemanding way. His shirt was not fully buttoned, though he had had the decency to put it on again after washing, and she could feel the warm, hair-roughened hardness of his chest against her shoulder. “I hope not,” he said, in a faraway voice.

  The sky rumbled above them, threatening mayhem, and a cool wind made the birchwood fire dance in its circle of stones.

  “I do wish I could take a bath,” Tess wailed softly, despairingly, for want of something better to say.

  Keith laughed gruffly and hugged her. “Then a bath you shall have,” he said.

  Tess watched him in love and wariness and wonder as he filled a large kettle with pond-water and then set it over the fire to heat. What an enigma this man was, shouting at her, teasing her unmercifully, baiting her. And then going to such effort to provide her with hot water for a bath.

  It was going to be awful, giving him up, saying goodbye to him. It was going to be impossible. And yet, when they reached Portland, Tess knew she would have to do just that.

  Chapter Seven

  ASA THATCHER HAD HAD ALMOST ALL THE SHOCKS HE could bear during the past hour—his beloved Olivia in an insane asylum, his Tess cavorting with a common peddler! Asa was not a comely man, but he was a wise one, and he knew the state of his family was a shame that belonged at his own doorstep and no other. With one clenched and weary fist, he struck the steamboat’s railing in what was, for him, a wild gesture of anguish.

  There had been no trains leaving that sleepy little Oregon town that afternoon, not even the one he’d arrived on. And so he had bought passage on this vessel, the Columbia Queen, the craft was called. It was a gaudy showboat, but that didn’t matter to Asa. No, all he cared about was reaching Portland as soon as possible.

  The captain, who was something of a showman in the bargain, had assured him that they would put into port in that coastal city early the next morning.

  Asa sighed, scanning the river—it was the color of worn jade—and the rich timberlands that edged it. What a fool he’d been all these years, taking Olivia and Tess for granted, staying in a marriage that had made both him and his wife miserable. Please God, if he could reach his Livie, if he could have a second chance with her—

  There was some kind of ballyhoo going on on the ship’s ramp, and Asa turned, mildly curious, to see what was happening. A young woman was sobbing that she’d been besmirched, used; it was all very dramatic. But it was her tall and handsome swain that gave Asa pause. Was that—? But no, it couldn’t be?

  It was. It was Rod.

  Asa considered and then approached his son. Truly, this was a day for surprises.

  “My papa will make you marry me!” wailed the girl, a small, plump, red-headed bundle of outrage and betrayed virtue. “You can’t just sail away from what you’ve done, Roderick Waltam!”

  Asa sighed. So he was still up to his old tricks, was Rod. And using his mother’s maiden name. “Asa Thatcher, Jr.,” had never been good enough for him—he’d amended it to Asa Thatcher II while at Princeton and that hadn’t satisfied him, either. Finally, he’d dubbed himself “Roderick,” sometimes retaining his rightful surname of Thatcher, sometimes calling himself Waltam.

  “Rod?”

  He turned, faced his father, speechless with surprise. Color moved up the handsome face inherited from the more comely Waltams, faded away again to a striking sort of pallor. “Father?”

  The steamer’s whistle blew, and, having no real choice, the young lady stormed down the ramp to the shoreline.

  “My papa will find you!” she screamed, from the riverbank. “Mark my words, Roderick Waltam—”

  Her voice faded away into silence as Asa Jr. and Asa Sr. stood on the slippery deck of that riverboat, staring at each other.

  “Mother is—” Rod began, hoarsely, after some considerable time.

  Asa took his son’s arm, ushered him back to the railing, where they could talk as the steamer moved out into the river in a graceful arc. “She died two weeks ago,” he said, when the time was right.

  Rod was recovering himself. “How did you find me?” he managed to ask.

  “It was an accident,” Asa confessed, in his straightforward way. “But I’m glad of it. That girl back there—”

  Incredibly, Rod grinned. “Emma. Isn’t she something? I’ve never met anyone quite like her.”

  Asa bit back a lecture on the proper treatment of women. Who was he to talk, when he had driven Livie to madness by his own indecisiveness? And Tess—well, God knew what would happen to Tess.

  Rod watched the distant figure that was Emma—she was like a furious little mudhen, pacing the riverbank, waving one fist in the air—until she and the town disappeared from view. And it seemed to Asa that his son bore a certain fondness for the girl.

  “Mother suffered?” the younger man asked, at great length, his expression serious again.

  “No,” Asa was relieved to answer. “She died very suddenly, in her sleep. You might have written home once or twice, Asa—we were worried about you.”

  The flawless face hardened. “My name is Rod,” he pointed out. “And I wanted nothing further to do with any of you, so why should I have written? You cared for nothing but your work and that mistress of yours, whoever
she was. And Mother and Millicent spent their days trying to find her and destroy her.”

  Asa sighed and braced himself against the railing, suddenly weary almost beyond bearing. Suppose, after all this, he could not reach Olivia with his love? Suppose she could not or would not become her old self?

  “Who was she?” Roderick asked grudgingly.

  “An actress,” Asa answered. “Her name was—is—Olivia Bishop.” Now, he met his son’s angry eyes. “I love her very much, Rod. She bore me a child.”

  Rod was white as parchment; Asa had not expected the news to be quite that much of a shock, all things considered. “Bishop,” he muttered. And then he added, more to himself than to Asa, “No. It couldn’t be.”

  Asa gestured toward the town; only the lumbermill, with its screaming saws and log booms, was visible now. “She came here, my Livie, after your mother and sister drove her out. Here to this very town.”

  “Her child,” Rod gasped out. “Your child—” Asa could smile at the thought of his daughter; it felt good to tell someone about her. To speak of her proudly. “Tess,” he began. “Rod, you’ll like her. She’s—”

  Rod was grasping the railing in white-knuckled hands and looking as though he might swoon right to the deck with all the drama of an old maid trapped in an opium den. “My God!” he breathed.

  It seemed to Asa that his son was overreacting to the news; after all, Rod was a grown man now. Certainly old enough to understand that men sometimes had mistresses and sometimes fathered illegitimate children. “Rod?” he prompted, concerned.

  “I met Tess,” Rod managed to say, more composed now. “She’s beautiful and wild and I wanted her. Thank God, I got Emma instead.”

  Now it was Asa who was shaken, Asa who was pale and unsteady on his feet. “Can a man get a drink on this boat?” he asked, in plaintive tones.

  Emma Hamilton dashed at her tears as she stumbled along the road that led to Derora Beauchamp’s roominghouse. Tess would know what to do, Tess always knew what to do. She had but to find her.

  At Mrs. Beauchamp’s front gate, Emma paused, her shame thick in her throat. Suppose everyone could tell what she had done with Roderick, just by looking at her? Did that sort of wickedness, enjoyable as it was, leave a visible mark on a person?

  She gave herself a mental shake. Mercy, she was being foolish. If the sweet-evil things Roderick had done to her, had taught her to do to him, left actual marks, Derora Beauchamp, for one, would be a mass of scars.

  Her valise, containing only a nightgown, a toothbrush, and an extra dress, was tucked beneath the swing on the front porch, where she had left it the night before. She had planned, of course, to spend the night with Tess—

  Staunchly, Emma turned the bellknob beside the door and waited. The black housekeeper, who secretly frightened Emma in some inexplicable way, answered promptly.

  “She ain’t here anymore,” was the brisk response to Emma’s request to see Tess.

  Emma swayed, put one hand to her cheek. It felt as cold as that of a corpse. “What—wh-where—” she stammered miserably.

  Juniper looked impatient. “Miss Tess done run off with that peddler-man,” she said. “Happened last night.”

  Emma felt sick. She was alone now, alone. Roderick was gone and so was Tess. How could they do this to her?

  “You all right, missy?” demanded the black woman shortly.

  “I—” Emma turned, like a sleepwalker, and stumbled away from the door. “Yes—I—”

  She bent and picked up her valise, aching with hurt, dazed with anger. It was to be expected, Emma guessed, that a man would use her and then leave her stranded, but Tess was supposed to be her friend. How could she go away without even saying goodbye?

  Emma’s valise thumped against her leg as she went back up the walk to the gate. Tears streaked down her face; she was in dire trouble now, she just knew it. And Tess wasn’t here to help her.

  Tess had betrayed her.

  Emma tried to think rationally. After all, if Roderick had asked her to run away with him, as the peddler had obviously asked Tess, she would have gone without hesitation. How could she blame her friend for a similar action?

  With her free hand, she touched her midsection. There was a baby growing inside her somewhere, she was certain of it. How the devil was she going to explain a baby to her mama and papa? How long would it be before the little one came—a week? A month?

  Oh, Tess, Emma mourned. Tess, how could you leave now?

  She was in the main part of town now; she found her father’s shop and rounded it to climb the steep stairs at the back and enter the small apartment where she had lived in sheltered comfort all her life.

  Her mother, rolling out pie dough at the table, looked up and smiled her sweet, patient smile. “Hello, Emma. Did you and Tess have a nice time last night?”

  Chin wobbling, Emma put her valise on a horsehair settee. I can’t speak for Tess, she thought with bitter humor, but I’ve never had so much fun in my life. “Mama!” she wailed.

  Cornelia Hamilton ceased her work, dusted her floury hands on her ruffled apron. Worry leaped in her dark eyes. “Darling—what is it?” she asked, in an alarmed whisper.

  She had to tell somebody. She had to. And Tess was gone. Damn Tess, why did everything good have to happen to her? Why did her man have to want her enough to take her with him, when Emma’s had sailed blithely away on a riverboat?

  “Emma,” prompted her mother.

  Emma couldn’t bring herself to name Roderick as the culprit in the story she was about to tell; mildmannered as her papa was, an incident such as this one would make him dangerously angry. For all his fickle ways, Emma didn’t want that anger directed at her Rod. “Mama,” she sobbed, “oh, Mama, I’m so ashamed—I didn’t spend the night with Tess—I was with—I was with a man.”

  The color flowed out of Cornelia’s face, disappearing under the prim collar of her green cambric gown. “With a man?” she echoed. “Dear Lord in heaven, Emma, who? What man?”

  Emma swallowed hard, sent a silent prayer for forgiveness shooting heavenward, and said outright, “Joel Shiloh. The peddler, Mama. I thought he loved me—I thought he would marry me.”

  Cornelia sank onto the horsehair settee, waving one hand in front of her face, swaying back and forth in a way that alarmed her daughter. “Did he force you, Emma? Did that awful drummer force you?”

  Emma wasn’t willing to carry the lie quite that far. “No, Mama,” she said, her voice shaking. “H-He courted me. I thought—I believed—”

  “Where is he now, Emma? This Shiloh person?”

  Emma’s tears were real. “That’s the terrible part of all this, Mama—he compromised me and then he—and then he eloped with Tess!”

  Cornelia was a kindly, rational woman, but she had always had mixed feelings where Tess Bishop was concerned, and Emma knew that. She disapproved of Tess’s hair, falling free and wild so much of the time, of her picture taking and her bicycling. And secretly, Emma suspected, her mother resented the fact that everything was always so much easier for Tess than for her daughter.

  She saw these feelings moving in her mother’s face now. Cornelia stood up, somewhat unsteadily, her lips drawn in a tight line across the bottom of her face, and untied her apron. “We’ll just see who comes out of this situation with a husband and who comes out with a tarnished reputation. We’ll just see.”

  Emma watched with wide eyes as Cornelia left the tiny quarters by the outside stairway. She felt sick at what she’d done. Suppose her father went after Tess and Joel Shiloh? Suppose—

  It was all too much. Emma toddled into her bedroom, collapsed into her bed, and gave herself up to the worst sick-headache she’d ever had.

  Tess made up the bunk inside the wagon as neatly as she possibly could. Then, conscious of the rain that pelted the top and sides of the wagon that sheltered her, even more conscious of the man who was outside in that storm, she stripped off her clothes and began her bath, such as it was.
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  Keith had provided her with a scratchy towel, stolen, judging by the monogram, from a hotel in San Francisco, a bar of buttermilk soap, and a washcloth. There was no tub, but the water in the kettle was steaming hot, and Tess was content with that. She dipped the soap and washcloth into the water, lathered them together, and began to wash herself all over. It was a slow, awkward process, washing that way, but it was worth it to feel clean again.

  When she had finished, she dried herself with the rough towel and then put on the one nightgown she had brought along, a prim affair with lace ruching on the yoke. She went to the door of the enclosed wagon, opened it, and flung the water out into the gathering darkness. What would happen now? Where was she supposed to sleep?

  She cast an anxious glance at the bunk and reddened at the memory of what had happened there. Was it going to happen again?

  A part of Tess hoped devoutly that it would, for never had she experienced feelings so gloriously, ferociously pleasurable. It was out of deference to another part of herself, however—a prim and selfrightous part—that she slammed the wagon’s door closed.

  She went to the bunk, sat down on its edge. She wished she’d aired the sheets before the rain had started, and the quilt, too. Then maybe they wouldn’t have the crisp, distinctive scent of Keith Corbin clinging to them.

  Tess was tired and sore and very confused. She sighed and crawled into bed, huddling close to the wall, watching as the light of one lantern danced and flickered against the rough wood there.

  Presently the door opened, cool, rain-scented air rushed in.

  “Tess.”

  She stiffened. “Go away,” she said.

  “This is my wagon, remember?” Keith’s voice reminded her, not unkindly. “And that’s my bed. Therefore, shoebutton, I’m not going anywhere.”

  She heard the soft rustling of garments being shed and moved closer to the wall. “You could sleep underneath the wagon,” she suggested tentatively.

  “If you think that’s such a grand idea,” he sighed, and the mattress gave a little as he sat down on the edge of the bunk, “be my guest. I’m not about to sleep on the ground.”